


One of these mornings, you're going to rise up singing

by dollsome



Category: Bomb Girls
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:56:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollsome/pseuds/dollsome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It keeps on surprising you, just how much you can bear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of these mornings, you're going to rise up singing

**Author's Note:**

> I really don't have the credentials to write Bomb Girls fic, since everything I know about it I've gotten from YouTube clips and [lovecatcadillac's beautiful stories](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/lovecatcadillac/pseuds/lovecatcadillac), but it appears I just needed to get my feelings out? I've borrowed the names of Kate's brothers from lovecatcadillac's works, which everybody should absolutely go read if you haven't already, oh my very heart.
> 
> This may sort of be fanfiction-for-a-fanfiction-for-a-show. That's cool right?

Father takes the boys out; you stay behind to tend to Mother. You’re glad to do it. It’s your duty, and you can’t possibly be too much the dutiful daughter after the past couple of months. Besides, it’s freezing out, and you’d rather stay in. (It’s almost like being alone, Mother sleeps so much, and you’d rather be alone.) It seems a wonder that only weeks ago you were in a place as alive as the boarding house. There was almost always laughter under that roof, coming from some girl or another. Sometimes, it was even you. Lots of times. You do love to laugh. You find it the easiest thing in the world, in some places. Lately you haven’t had much cause.

 

But that’s only right. What sort of girl laughs when her mother’s dying?

 

Mother’s not altogether gone today. She’s awake enough that you find she’s watching you with sleepy eyes when you settle down in the chair beside her bed. You’ve caught her looking at you in a peculiar way a couple of times since you came home. Almost as if she’s disappointed. You wonder how much Father told her, about what you got up to when you were away. You’re too afraid to ask. You know she won’t be with you much longer, not unless there’s a miracle, and the idea of her dying disappointed in you is almost too much to bear.

 

It keeps on surprising you, just how much you can bear.

 

When Mother meets your eyes, she puts a smile on. “You stayed.”

 

“I didn’t want to leave you.” Fool that you are, it puts a lump in your throat just to say it. You know that it’s the best thing: that Mother will be in heaven, safe and sound, without the cough or the boys and Father to worry about. (It’s a wonder she’s made it this long with such a husband. No woman could be perfect enough to live with him and keep him happy. _She could use a holiday,_ you thought a few days ago, sneaking the thought beneath Father’s shouting, and then nearly gasped aloud at your brain’s nerve. Wicked little thoughts like that come more than they should. The voice in your head doesn’t sound like yours, but it’s familiar all the same. Welcome, though it ought not to be.)

 

It’s only that the thought of losing her makes every nerve you have scream inside, it’s so horrible. When she’s gone, you’ll have no one. You know Father and Walter and Richard all love you, but knowing and feeling are different. After Mother goes, there will be no one to love you in this whole wide world.

 

You dig your fingernails into your palms, hard, and vow not to think about love.

 

“You dear girl,” Mother says, with the most tired and lovely smile. It just about breaks your heart. If she knew – if she knew about the drinking, the dancing, about you crooning out love songs brazen as anything for anyone and everyone to see and sway to – she could never call you ‘dear’ again. Or maybe she does know, and calls you ‘dear’ anyway. Somehow, that’s so much worse. And then, as if she can see right into you: “Will you sing?”

 

“Of course,” you say quickly. What a relief it is, to be able to give something. You ponder songs, and for a crazy split-second you can’t remember a single hymn. It’s as if you were hollowed out and then filled to the brim with Billie. You push _What A Little Moonlight Can Do_ out of the way, and land on _Be Thou My Vision._

 

You open your mouth to begin. You remember how it felt to clutch the microphone stand. A whole gaggle of people staring up at you, and your heart fit to stop. Betty staring up at you with such pride on her face, like you’d already finished singing and she’d never heard or seen anything so beautiful before.

 

(“Be thou my vision, O Lord of my heart,” you begin now. “Be all else but naught to me, save that thou art—”)

 

She’ll have done that on purpose, of course. Father explained to you very well what lengths those people will go to. It seemed very funny, listening to him tell you all about Betty and every corner of her rotten heart when he’d only seen her five minutes and you’d spent months glued to her side. But you didn’t, couldn’t imagine not believing him. Your father may be hard, but he’s a righteous man all the way to his bones. He would never lie; such things are beneath him.

 

(“Be thou my great Father, and I thy true son; be thou in me dwelling, and I with thee one.”)

 

It was a very strange walk, that walk back home. You had to remind yourself to breathe. In spite of the cold, you couldn’t feel a thing. Not even your feet on the ground. It’s a wonder you didn’t fall. Father called Betty a deviant, over and over, and you tried to hate her – no, not her, just her sin, the sin that has eaten her up and tried to sink its teeth in you – and wondered meanwhile whether that blow Father threw at her would bruise. It twisted your heart, imagining Betty bruised up and too proud to let anyone tend to her. Yet how yielding she was under your touch, at the piano. And the look on her face— At the time, you could only think how beautiful she looked, relaxed like that and all thanks to you. Watching her eyes flutter closed gave you the happiest butterflies. What an idiot you were. Perhaps you were begging for it, without even realizing.

 

“Marion?”

 

“I’m sorry,” you say, and nearly jump. Your heart thuds, guilty.

 

There it is again, that sad look of hers. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

 

“My mind wandered, is all,” you blurt out. You could kick yourself.

 

“Did you learn any new songs?” Mother asks after a moment. “While you were away?”

 

“Oh,” you say weakly, “lots.”

 

“Will you sing me one of those?”

 

You hesitate. You know she would never trick you, and yet—

 

“Go on,” she adds, looking almost hopeful. “Sing me your favorite.”

 

_I wished for every loveliness. It all came true._

 

“That’s all right. I like this one,” you say, and carry on. Mother closes her eyes. “Be thou and thou only the first in my heart – O Sovereign of Heaven, my treasure thou art ...”

 

You know you must’ve forgotten a few of the lines, but you don’t care so very much.

 

+

 

You used to wonder, usually at night when you were alone and not used to being unafraid yet, if Betty only began to like you because she felt sorry for you. For she certainly had no time for you at first. But then there came that first shower, and her peering over at your scars. She was always good to you after that, always. You used to marvel to yourself over how odd and wonderful it was, that a girl could sweep in like Prince Charming and swear to keep you safe. And in the end, all it got her was the bruises she’d promised to protect you from. At least it can’t have been hard enough to scar.

 

_She didn’t love you,_ you tell yourself firmly, sounding every bit like you. _She would have said anything._

 

+

 

You dream yourself right back to Victory Munitions. The factory floor’s empty. Everything is so white and clean, and the room feels full of sunlight. It’s only you and the gentle echoing click of your footsteps. You hum a few lines of _I Wished On The Moon._ The words have all left you, but that’s not so important. It’s the feeling that matters.

 

“Sounds like someone’s happy,” comes that voice from behind you. You can’t stop yourself from smiling. _Betty._

 

“There you are,” you say, turning. Your heart swells at the sight of her. There she is, hands tucked into her trouser pockets, ambling over to you with that casual swagger that you know is at least a little put on when it’s coming your way. Betty is always glad to see you. The feeling’s mutual. “I was worried about you.”

 

You brush her hair back, searching for the bruise. You know it must be there somewhere, though you can’t see it.

 

“It’s only a scratch,” Betty protests.

 

“Hush,” you chide. She scoffs, and you try your best not to giggle. This is serious, after all. “I feel terrible. It’s all my fault.”

 

“You weren’t the one throwing punches, as I recall.”

 

“I might as well have. And you were so hurt.”

 

Her expression darkens, turns embarrassed. It pains you keenly, to see what you’ve done to her. She doesn’t deserve even a bit of it. She’s your best friend. You never knew love could be so effortless and fun, until her. As easy as dancing. As sweet as it feels to sing.

 

“It’s all right to cry,” you tell her, though of course you’re one to talk. “You needn’t be so brave all the time, you know.”

 

“Yeah, well.” She doesn’t look hurt anymore, thank goodness. She leans in like she’s got a secret to tell, with a little sly smile, and says, “Right back atcha.”

 

“What are you talking about?” you protest. You give her an impatient swat on the shoulder – it makes her laugh – and you let your hand linger. Your hands would linger all the time, if the choice was theirs. “I’m hardly brave. I’m a mouse. If I were brave, I’d—”

 

“You’d what?” she asks, after a time.

 

You’d nearly forgotten what it was like, being looked at by Betty McRae. Surely it could make anyone forget their words, and just get lost in staring. (There should be songs, whole songs, to her eyes, and the way her mouth quirks just so when she smiles, and the beauty spot that she obstinately calls a mole.) Thank God you’re not without her anymore. You missed her so much you think you could almost cry out from the pain of it, even though she’s finally standing right here.

 

“Never mind,” you say, smoothing her hair. “None of that. Let’s just be happy.”

 

“Okay,” Betty says, smiling at you. You’re beginning to remember: once upon a time, you were worth smiling for. “Let’s.”

 

You take her hand, ready to move forward. There’s a fine summer’s day waiting out there.

 

“Would you like to know a secret?” you can’t help asking as you walk.

 

“Depends,” Betty replies. Your joined hands swing back and forth. “Is it a nice one?”

 

“I really like you, Betty.”

 

“I know.” It surprises you. “Kate.” You want to close your eyes and bask in the sound of your own name. But that would mean not seeing her, and she’s looking at you just the way she did in the hallway, when she promised she’d make sure. “You don’t have to worry.”

 

And if anything’s ever sounded too good to be true, it’s that. You squeeze her hand. “But aren’t you tired of waiting?”

 

“Never,” she says, plain and simple. With a little half-smile, she adds, “You know where to find me. When you’re ready.”

 

And while it may be no smooth line of Clark Gable’s, you think you’ve never heard anything so lovely before. You tug her to a halt. She stares at you, eyebrows furrowing adorably in a question.

 

“I do, don’t I?” You must be smiling; she begins to smile right back. It’s the easiest thing on earth to lean forward and kiss her. She wraps her arms around you, bringing you close as close can be, and all you can think is how silly you were to believe anywhere else could be home. If you had known it would be like this, you would never have pulled away.

 

Around the pair of you, the world stays clean and bright and good.

 

+

 

You don’t want to wake up. If you wake up, all you’ve got is Mother, and she’s fading fast. Your brothers, growing up all too quickly in your father’s shadow. And Father.

 

Even when you know you’re awake, even as the dream begins to leave you, you let yourself believe in it anyway. Just for a couple of seconds. You imagine a warmth and a weight at your side, a ghost Betty like the real one, who used to sit beside you sometimes in her pajamas until you fell asleep. _If you go straight to hell, well, at least you’ll be in good company._ There it is again. That Betty voice. You ought to will it away for good. You’ve gotten so bad at doing what you ought to.

 

It must be late, because Richard comes over to loom at you. He’s getting almost as good at it as his father. “Marion, get up.”

 

“I’m coming,” you say, flatly as you can, and turn to face the wall.

 

He just watches you for a few seconds. You can feel his eyes. Then, a child again in his awkwardness, he asks, “Are you crying?”

 

You allow yourself one deep breath.

 

“Don’t be silly, Richard.” You turn to face him, putting a mild smile on. “What’s there to cry about?”

 

+

 

“Have you anything to tell me, Marion?” Father asks. He’s fallen into the habit of doing so. It isn’t fair: you confessed all your sins right away on that night, that horrible night with the kiss in it.

 

(The words tumbled out of you; it was like being sick, but it was the only thing you could think of to do – if you hadn’t, what would have become of you? If Father had never come back, and Betty had still kissed you on that piano bench, what would you have done? Would you have been strong enough to deny temptation without his voice ringing fresh in your head? You don’t know. You aren’t sure. You always thought you would recognize temptation right away when you saw it, but it caught you unawares. You never would have imagined it would be Betty. Everything was so sweet and easy and fearless with Betty, and you’d grown so used to having her close. Pulling her closer without even a thought. You’ll remember her face when you spat the word _disgusting_ at her for as long as you live. You long to ask forgiveness for it, but you’re full of the awful suspicion that forgiveness wouldn’t do you much good coming only from God.)

 

It’s not as if you’ve had much chance to commit any new sins since. At least not in deed, and you can barely keep track of your own thoughts anymore. Still, Father asks and asks and asks, as if he means to catch you out. As if he wants you to be bad. He stares sternly right into your soul.

 

“No,” you tell him, your hands folded primly in your lap, your heart hollow where the guilt should be.

 

+

 

The next time you’re alone with Mother, you tell her a little about Billie Holiday. That your friend Leon first recommended her; that your friend Betty took you record shopping to make it official. (Your hands shake, saying “Betty” under this roof. Saying it at all. It’s only that it’s been so long.) Mother smiles like it’s the most wonderful thing she’s ever heard. You sing her _Summertime_.


End file.
